Incomplete Sentences
by strangerthanfanfiction
Summary: Some small part of George still clings to the void Fred has left, but when a drunken excursion on the third anniversary of Fred's death results in an unexpected friendship, George finds himself actually wanting to finish his own sentences.
1. Chapter 1

**INCOMPLETE SENTENCES**

_Chapter 1:Remembering and Forgetting_

_May 1, 2001_

'Are you all right?'

George started out of a reverie and smiled automatically at the intense expression on Verity's face. 'Yeah,' he said. 'I'm fine.'

'_Don't worry so much,' Fred would have said, tugging on one of her short, blonde braids. 'Makes you look like our Mum.'_

Verity bit her lip. She didn't look pleased, but she leaned over the counter and kissed his cheek anyway. 'Ok-ay. Take care, then?'

'Of course,' George replied, looking back down determinedly at the stack of owl-order forms in front of him. He didn't look back up until he heard the flat 'dang' of the broken bell tied to the front door as it closed behind her.

The joke shop was technically closed for the day. The narrow, empty aisles were amiably disordered, slogan-emblazoned boxes stacked haphazardly on rickety shelves. The usually animated and excitable Pygmy Puffs were snoozing quietly in their cage, their small bodies heaped in a warm myriad of breathing color. Sun-bleached wooden floorboards had been magically scrubbed to a dull shine. A sea of glittering dust swam in languid circles around the barrels of fake wands and trick sweets, glowing lavender from the sunlight shining through the violet posters plastered to the shop windows.

It had been Verity's idea to close the shop early. Although he had protested vehemently at first, he was glad to flip the 'Sorry, We're Open' sign to the 'Bugger Off, We're Closed' side when four o'clock finally came. He wasn't counting on spending nearly an hour after that subtly hinting to Verity that she didn't need to busy herself after hours to keep him company.

It wasn't like he had plans for the evening. He had refused Molly's offer of dinner at the Burrow, as well as Lee's invitation to a Victory Day Party at the Three Broomsticks, saying to both that he'd just rather not come.

So now he was sitting there, staring at a pile of owl-orders he didn't have to fill for another two days. With a sigh, he shoved the orders to one side and put his head in his hands. If his heart had risen like a rock to his throat, then what was the twisting, burning ache growing in the pit of his stomach?

The broken bell rang once as the front door swung open.

'_Can't you bloody well read?' Fred would have said exasperatedly._

'Yeah,' George put in, still not looking up. 'The sign clearly says that we're closed.'

'I'm not here to buy anything, you great prat,' said a familiar voice.

'Gin?'

Ginny laughed. 'Who else?' Grinning, she ducked around the counter and threw her arms around him. Her arms were warm across his back, and the ache in his stomach had subsided slightly. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed his little sister since he'd seen her at her last game.

'Hey,' he said affectionately, hugging her as well. 'Haven't seen you in a while. You look well.' She did look well—she was leaner and stronger than she'd been before the Harpies had recruited her, and she was just starting to develop a bizarrely endearing sort of Quidditch tan around her face and neck.

'Thanks,' she said, stepping back a little. 'I wish I could say the same, but you look like you haven't slept in a week.'

'_Flattered,' Fred would have responded drily._

'Anyhow, it's not so bad,' George added with a shrug. 'How're the Harpies holding up?'

Ginny beamed at him. 'Second in the league! I think we'll overtake the Kestrels soon enough, too, and we're playing the Cannons on Saturday.'

'I know. I've got quite a large bet on, so don't you dare slip up now.'

'The Cannons don't have a chance,' Ginny assured him. 'Just don't tell Ron I said that.'

George shook his head. 'He knows it. The day the Cannons win the league—'

'—_Zacharias-bloody-Smith will be Minister of Magic,' Fred concluded with a grin._

Ginny hesitated, and then said quickly. 'Okay, it'll never happen. Anyway, the stadium gave me some extra tickets, and I brought them for you…I thought you might want to give the others to Lee, and Verity.'

'Yeah,' said George. 'They'd like that.'

Ginny fished around in her cloak pockets and produced a heavy envelope, which she tossed onto the counter beside the stack of owl-order forms. When she noticed the forms, however, she turned to George with an accusatory glare that almost made him step back. 'What in Merlin's name are these?'

'Notes for my steamy new romance novel,' George said promptly with a straight face.

'_Owl-order forms, Gin,' Fred would have clarified in a long-suffering voice._

Ginny's eyes narrowed. 'You're working overtime, aren't you?'

George shrugged again. 'Business's picked up lately.'

'George, the shop is closed! Tomorrow's a holiday!' Ginny's wand was out before he could blink, and a sharp jerk sent the forms cascading into a drawer under the counter. She sealed the drawer shut with a silent incantation.

'What was that for?' George demanded angrily.

'Get out,' Ginny said quietly, but her voice was shaking.

'_You can't kick us out—it's our shop!' Fred would have protested._

'I mean it.' Ginny crossed her arms, her wand still dangling from her fingertips, and George really did take a step back. 'Go out to dinner, to a party, or something!—just don't hole up in your stupid shop and wait for this all to be over again! It isn't helping!'

'I don't know what you're on about—'

'George, swear to me you won't stay here all night.'

'_She's gone mental,' Fred would have breathed, elbowing George._

'Ginny—'

'SWEAR IT!'

'All right!' George shouted. 'I swear! Just leave us alone, for Merlin's sake!'

Ginny walked to the shop door and stopped. When she spoke again, it was in an even, measured voice. 'I'll see you tomorrow at Shell Cottage for Victoire's second birthday party. Have a good time tonight.'

The single clang of the bell was followed by a 'pop' as she Disapparated out of the street. George glared out into the empty alley for several minutes before whipping out his wand and brandishing it violently at the drawer while muttering every counter-spell he could think of to unlock it, short of blasting it to bits. After fifteen minutes of futilely guessing what spell she'd used, George jumped up, seized the envelope off the counter, and stormed up the back stairs into the flat over the shop.

He threw the envelope onto the little table by the door and, as a sudden fury seized him, kicked the heap of cardboard boxes piled by the wardrobe. One of the little black telescopes rolled out onto the floor. He snatched it up, arm cocked to hurl it against the wall, when a tiny fist shot out of the telescope and punched him in the face. 'What the bloody hell!' he shouted, dropping it and clutching the bruise blooming over his eye.

'_I can't believe you fell for that one,' Fred would have said, shaking his head._

George stumbled over to one of the twin beds and flung himself over the bedspread, still holding one hand to his face. The springs creaked and dug uncomfortably into his back—he and Fred had broken that mattress jumping on it and yelling like a pair of eight-year-old boys when they got the Ministry order for a hundred Shield Hats and Cloaks.

His eye felt like it had been victimized by a rogue bludger.

'Merlin's beard,' George hissed at the ceiling, unsure whether he was angry, or just miserable, or merely distracted by his splitting headache. He lay there, waiting for the throbbing to subside, and when he tired of staring at a water-stain on the ceiling, he got up and walked over to the coat stand. Two lurid green dragon-skin jackets hung there, a little worn and with magically expanded pockets full of loose change, old tricks. George's was on the right's, Fred's on the left, their names magically embroidered on the insides of the collars. After a moment's indecision, he pulled on the one on the left.

Ten seconds later, he Apparated into Diagon Alley and started off towards the Leaky Cauldron.

-

The Leaky Cauldron was a raucous haze of drinking, singing, smoking, and half-sober reminiscing. The iron-ring chandeliers practically shivered with the enthusiasm of the bar-frequenters, making the light of the candle stubs waver tremulously on the walls and tabletops. George ordered a Firewhiskey from Tom as he passed the door and settled himself in an empty seat at the end of a long table.

Eddie Carmichael and Harold Dingle were sitting at the next table with no less than Mundungus Fletcher, their arms around each other as they sang the Hogwarts school song to a variety of melodies. A minute later, Michael Corner rejoined them with a fresh round of drinks and a painful rendition of _'Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts' _to some tune that sounded bizarrely like 'God Save the Queen.'

'Hey, George!' He turned as Hannah Abbot set his drink down in front of him. Her brown hair was braided down her back, and she was wearing a thin apron that tied in the back in a large bow over bronze-coloured robes. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, but her smile was infectious. 'You doing all right? What happened to your eye?'

'Nothing,' said George. 'I'm fine. So, Tom's got you working the bar now?'

Hannah nodded. 'He's getting on, you know, talking about retiring and all, but there's not many people he'll trust to run this place right.' She gestured vaguely at the apron. 'He seems to trust me, though.'

'_I like the apron,' Fred would have remarked, waggling an eyebrow suggestively . 'You should wear an apron ALL THE TIME.'_

George laughed. 'Hey, it really does suit you. This all, I mean. You're like the up-and-coming—'

'—_lovely Madam Rosmerta, but for the Leaky Cauldron,' Fred would have agreed with a wink and a shameless, pointed glance at the glass in front of George._

'Er…what?' said Hannah.

George resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Hufflepuffs were, as a general rule, completely oblivious. 'Never mind, Hannah. Thanks.'

'Okay,' she said, smiling tentatively again. 'Let me know if you need anything.'

She walked off towards the bar. George took a swig of the firewhiskey and—choking slightly—set it back down. The frothy gold liquid slothed over the edge of the glass. When the light hit the surface of the wet spot on the table just right, it shone a funny sort of scarlet, with honey-brown swirls and streaks.

It felt good just to hold the glass in his hand, his fingers curving around the smooth edges. He tried taking a sip, but his eyes watered, and he gave up and downed half the glass as seamlessly as possible. It was easier to drink that way.

'And then,' Ernie Macmillan was saying further down the table, 'You-Know-Who came out of the Forest with all the Death Eaters, and they had Hagrid—that's the gamekeeper, half giant?—carry Harry Potter's body. Everyone thought he was dead!'

'Hullo!'

George turned his head and stared blankly as Zacharias Smith slid into the seat across from him, holding some sort of strawberry-coloured mixed drink with an umbrella sticking out of it. Great Merlin, George thought, where were all the bloody Hufflepuffs coming from?

'It's Fred, right?'

'_No, you dolt, I'm George,' Fred would have said, feigning indignation._

'Hey, how's the toy store going?' Smith said, somehow managing to sound both aggressive and condescending as he started on what had to be the ponciest-looking drink ever.

'Joke shop,' George corrected automatically.

Smith laughed. The sound made George's head hurt. 'Yeah, whatever. Same thing.'

'_Yeah?' Fred would have demanded. 'You think? Well, we think that umbrella sticking out of your drink—'_

'—is the same thing as it sticking out of your bloody eye,' George finished, raising an eyebrow threateningly.

Smith crossed his arms. 'What are you on about?'

George was Put Out. Put Out, as in he was suddenly, irrationally angry at Smith for being such a stupid sod, at himself for getting riled up at Smith, and at the world for not having the decency to knock Smith off sooner. They'd not even been talking two minutes, honestly! His head was pounding, especially the right side of his face where the telescope had punched him, and the burning feeling in his stomach was back and more intense than ever. He wanted to hit something. Or someone. Smith was closest. George curled his hand more tightly around his glass and forced himself to look pointedly at the empty seat to his right. 'Merlin, I think I hate him,' George said, as if he were talking to Fr—someone else and hoping against hope Smith would get the hint and leave.

'_Always was an arse,' Fred would have agreed._

'An utter arse,' George seconded with a glower, downing his glass.

'Are you drunk, Weasley?' Smith asked delightedly. 'Blimey, you're pathetic. It's not even six o'clock yet.'

'_Drunk?' Fred would have repeated with a malicious grin._

'Yes, I'm drunk,' said George clearly. 'So I don't really have control over what I'm doing, exactly.' He felt around in his pockets and produced two galleons, which he dropped in his own empty glass for Hannah, and then a handful of narrow, short-fused purple firecrackers, which he plunked into Smith's drink beside the umbrella.

Smith's jaw dropped. 'What the bloody hell're you playing at!'

'_Cheerio, then,' Fred would have said brightly._

George's fingers found the end of his wand, and he pulled it out as he backed away from the table. 'Don't bother to keep in touch, mate.' He lit the fuses with a flick of his wand and Apparated to the front door.

His feet had barely touched the threshold when the drink exploded in a volley of crackling booms and pops.

George sidestepped a purple sparkler and ducked out into the street. The door banged closed behind him. He could still hear the snaps and whirs of the firecrackers bouncing off the walls and ceiling, the shouts and laughs of the wizards inside, and Hannah's indignant cry of 'GEORGE!'

'_Brilliant, mate,' Fred would have said._

The pub noise was a bizarre contrast to the quiet Muggle street. The sun hadn't quite set, and it wasn't late enough for the streetlamps to switch on, so the neighborhood lay in a state of semi-darkness. The bookshop and record-store on either side of the Leaky Cauldron were closed, as well as the barber's and the antiquary across the street. The dingy old theatre on the other side of the cross-street had been boarded up. George thrust his hands in his pockets and started off around the corner.

Six or seven blocks from the Thames, he came to a grubby little pub with a plaque on the door that read, 'The Black Centaur.' It was half concealed in the wave of untamed ivy tumbling from the second-story window garden boxes. Musty yellow, electric lights glowed like blurred suns through the thick, narrow diamond-paned windows, and from within came the low murmur of muted conversations and the occasional, misplaced roar of drunken laughter.

He hesitated on the stoop. A desperate desire to Apparate back into the empty flat in Diagon Alley flared up in him, but he thought of sitting alone on the sofa and spending the evening staring at the hideous wallpaper he and Fred meant to replace years ago, and a reckless apathy seized him.

He pushed the door open and went in.

It was a drab, eccentric sort of place. The walls were dark green and covered with standards for everything for medieval lords to football teams. The right side of the room was cluttered with stout tables and mismatched chairs, and in the centre of it were a couple of old codgers as much engrossed in a chessboard as their drinks. A long, narrow bar stretched the length of the left wall. A rowdy bunch of university students about George's age were playing some sort of drinking game at the end of the bar, and the affable old bartender was laughing and talking with them as he refilled their drinks.

George wandered to the bar and took a seat about halfway down. The bartender was eyeing him suspiciously. He tried to look nonchalant as the man came over, wiping his hands on his apron.

''Lo,' said George. 'I'd like a fire-whiskey and a large gillywater, please.'

'_Same for me,' Fred would have said._

The bartender blinked. 'What?'

'Or,' said George thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on the counter, 'I might do a witch cognac with a dash of Pepper-up Potion, if you don't mind.'

'Look,' the bartender said politely, 'I don't know what you're talking about, but I don't want any trouble.'

'Why do you think I'll be trouble?' George asked, startled.

'How'd you get that black eye?'

George's hand went automatically to the sore, bruised flesh around his eye, and he winced. 'I—fell...'

'…_on his eye,' Fred would have added helpfully._

George didn't notice how his own voice broke, but the bartender's disbelieving expression softened, and he ventured a sympathetic smile. 'Lover's spat?'

'Um, yeah,' George agreed hastily.

'Nothing like a couple of drinks to ease the pain of a broken heart,' the bartender said with a sage little nod. 'I don't know why you'd want Witches' Brew, though—I'd have a Scotch or two and then start on Godiva.'

George shrugged. 'I'll take your word for it.'

'Any kind in particular?'

'Just make me forget.'

The bartender grinned and walked off to get a clean glass. _Fred would have waited until he was out of earshot to remark, snickering, 'Imaginary girlfriend's got a mean punch.'_

'Shut it,' George said irritably.

'_Ooh, tetchy,'_ _Fred would have murmured with a crooked grin._

Sulking, George headed for a table in the back corner, passing the chess-players on the way. 'That's not on!' one of them was saying angrily. 'You moved your pawn sideways!'

'You're a blind old fool, Jack Cooper!' the other said hotly. 'It's a rook, see?'

'It is not.'

'It is too.'

'Well, you've got both of your bishops on black!'

'That one's a knight if I ever saw one, and you've got the nerve to call me blind!'

'_Merlin, I hope we don't look like that when we're a hundred and fifty,' Fred would have hissed._

George bit back the laugh just as the one called Jack waved him back with a shout. 'Hey, you! Kid! Come here and tell Gerald that that there's a bishop!'

George approached hesitantly. It wasn't the fact that these two were completely inebriated that put him on edge—more like the fact that they _weren't_.

Gerald was at least seventy, with a shock of white hair, thick-rimmed green glasses, and a purple flowered bowtie that ought to be illegal. Jack had glasses too—round black ones that magnified his eyes and accentuated the smooth curve of his bald head—but the ridiculous glasses were nothing compared to the green and orange plaid golfer pants he was wearing beneath a black button-down. George couldn't understand how anyone who wasn't drunk out of their mind would wear those of their own volition.

Jack grinned toothily up at him and gestured with a thumb at a pawn on the left side of the board. 'Bishop, isn't it?'

'It's a knight,' Gerald said loudly.

George leaned slightly over the table to see better. It looked as though a child had arranged the pieces on the board at whim. George found it most interesting that the black queen was directly facing the white king but was just out of reach of the pawns, and protected on one side by a knight. The black king was in Jack's pile of taken pieces. 'It's a pawn, but—'

'_It doesn't really matter,' Fred would have said, nodding._

'I mean, it looks like you took his king a long time ago,' George explained, pointing.

Gerald reached for the piece and turned it over in his hands. Then he reached for the black queen and held them up side-by-side. Jack's face lit up in startled comprehension.

'So I won, then?'

'_Actually, it would probably be best—'_

'If you played a rematch,' said George indifferently. 'We'll watch, if you like.'

'You'll make sure Jack doesn't cheat?' Gerald demanded, glowering.

George shrugged. 'Yeah, sure.'

The bartender brought him his drink while Jack and Gerald set up the board again and ordered drinks for themselves. George put Jack's bishop and rook in their proper places before starting on his Scotch, and the game began.

It was singularly the most boring game of chess George had ever watched. Jack and Gerald had clearly been playing together a very long time, and knew each other well enough to predict each other's next moves and plan out their strategies several steps in advance. They also knew each other well enough to know the other would have predicted a certain move on their part, and made a point of Not Doing It, so that they were playing in bizarre, nonsensical ways that the other would not have foreseen. Of course, that undermined the entire point of planning out moves in advance, because one surprise move meant the whole plan on both of their parts had to be scrapped.

'_And the pieces don't even annihilate each other,' Fred would have complained._

George was just finishing off his first drink when Jack slid a pawn diagonally five spaces across the board and picked off a knight.

'You can't do that!' Gerald said at once. 'Only bishops and the queen can do that!'

'It is a bishop!' Jack protested.

They both looked around at George, who glanced down at the piece in question and shrugged. Their agitated voices were doing nothing for his headache, and the dissipated knot in his stomach was gathering again as a dull ache in his chest. 'It's a—'

'Sorry to interrupt,' the bartender said from over George's shoulder, 'but would you like another one of those?'

George paused. He had a couple of pounds somewhere in one of his jacket pocket, but mostly he was carrying galleons, and he didn't want to have to wipe the bartender's memory for the sake of getting drunk that night. Jack intervened swiftly. 'Yeah, bring him another, Bill. Kid, this one's on me.'

'Thanks,' said George, surprised.

Jack winked. 'No problem. So kid, is it or is it not a bishop?'

'_That was slick,' Fred would have said admiringly._

George didn't look twice at the pawn as he said firmly, 'It's a bishop.'

'Oh,' said Gerald, disappointed. 'I was sure it was a pawn.'

The next disagreement came ten minutes later, when George was halfway through the second scotch. Gerald had slid another pawn four spaces forward and to the opposite side of the board, and with a pleased expression declared check.

'Abso-bloody-lutely not!' Jack said fiercely, banging his fist on the table. 'You moved your rook twice!'

Gerald glared. 'It was there before! It's been there for the last fifteen minutes!'

They turned at the same time to George, who had his glass halfway to his lips.

'Bill!' said Jack loudly. 'Kid's glass is getting low! Bring him another, would you?'

'Yeah,' Gerald put in, a little louder, 'but this one's on me.'

'How kind,' said George, blinking. 'Well, in that case…yeah, the "rook" was definitely there before.'

Two and a half? hours wasn't all that…yeah, not compared to some of…thingies he'd seen, George thought, four scotches, one gin, two godivas, and a Merlin-knows-what (but it was good) later as he stumbled into the street. He thought vaguely of Appa—Apparrr—that disappear appear thing, but it occurred to him that his stomach might not follow, and with a hysterical laugh, he started down the sidewalk.

The builti—aparr—house things swum…lazily in mud puddle lakes, grasping? groping? clinging? at concrete curbs. George wove his way towards the…cross-street, careful not to fall into the—mud lakes or maybe rivers. It would be a long way—to fall.

He couldn't remem—reca—was it a left here or…not left?

Left was rows of things with a walk-thing in the middle, and there was…ah, the Thames! at the end.

Not left was rows of things with a walk-thing in the—yeah, and there was that river again at the end.

'S'a trick,' George announced. Well, he wasn't fool—tric—taken in. He was going…left.

It was very dark, so it must be very, very late…very, very, very, very…

Or, maybe it was dark dust stuff from peru—good stuff, that!

He put his hands out in front of him to feel his way forw—aheaa—on, but he didn't feel the—sidewalk? in time to stop it from hitting his head. Then he didn't feel anything at all.

-

The first thing he saw was the light. It was somewhere between white and yellow, and when it seeped through his eyelids he felt as though he were staring into the sun. His head weighed about a hundred pounds, and some git was taking a pair of Beaters' bats into both sides of his skull at the same time in a semi-successful attempt to pound his head into a heap of mush brains.

He groaned and tried to roll over, but his body wasn't ready to move yet. Wherever he was, it was very comfortable. Very, very, very, very…

'Are you all right?'

He blinked and came to, staring up into an extremely curious pair of pale grey eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

INCOMPLETE SENTENCES

_Chapter 2: Forgetting and Pretending_

In some of the Muggle handbooks his dad had gotten him on coping with grief, George had seen pictures of angels. They were all pretty young women with large white wings that smiled and glowed and lived in the place where people went after they died.

The girl hovering over him could only be an angel.

Her pale skin trapped the light and practically shone with it. Soft brown hair fell in loose ringlets down her neck, barely brushing her shoulders. The little smile gracing her narrow lips reached her warm, grey eyes and made them come alive. He didn't think to look for wings. He didn't need to.

She was an angel, and he was dead. It wasn't so bad, really.

'You hit your head pretty hard, I think,' she said gently, brushing his forehead with cool fingertips. George resisted the urge to laugh maniacally.

'Obviously, if I ended up here.'

The angel looked distressed. Angels shouldn't look distressed. George felt terribly guilty for saying whatever he'd said that had thrown her off. 'What do you mean, Fred?' she asked anxiously.

George's eyes widened. 'He's here too?' He struggled to sit up, but his body was weighing him down, and he slipped sideways off of what seemed to be a sofa and hit the floor. Pain shot through his body, and the headache worsened a hundredfold. A low moan escaped him.

The wave of nausea rose up with the moan, and he barely managed to grab the artistic vase off of the coffee table before he retched up everything he'd eaten in the last twenty-four hours. The girl took a step back. 'I'm going to go make coffee. I'll bring you some water and an aspirin, but I can't do anything about the hangover.'

She was gone before he could ask what an aspirin was.

He wiped his mouth on the back of one trembling hand and pushed back into a sitting position on the sofa. Fred's dragonskin jacket was folded neatly and laid on the far armrest, the embroidered name on the tag peeking through the purple fabric. George understood with a jolt of disappointment why the girl had called him Fred.

The sofa was pushed against a wall with a window looking out over the street. When he leaned slightly back, George could see the road going back down to a vaguely familiar intersection. He'd made a wrong turn, but he hadn't gotten far; the Leaky Cauldron was a five-minute walk from the cross-street.

He thought about reaching for his jacket, checking for his wand, and just Apparating out of the girl's apartment, but he still wasn't sure he could manage it. If he splinched himself and left half of himself in her living room, the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad would have to obliviate the girl, and that wouldn't be a nice way to repay her for carrying him up to her apartment alone and letting him sleep on her couch and offering him her coffee—oh, and vomiting in her pretty glass vase, which he was still holding in the crook of one arm. He set it back on the coffee table innocuously.

The girl came back into the room carrying two mugs of coffee, a glass of water, and a little white tablet. The way she balanced it all reminded George of Madam Rosmerta, and he wondered if the girl had worked in a pub as well. She set everything down gently on the coffee table and offered the water and aspirin to George, who took the pill into his hand with some degree of skepticism.

'I'm supposed to just swallow this?'

'That's the idea,' she said, taking up a cup of coffee and settling into the olive green armchair beside the sofa.

It was always inadvisable to eat strange pills offered by other people, a lesson that Fred and George had taught scores of people during their years in business. It was a mark of the severity of his headache and apathy to what happened to him that he swallowed the pill and downed the water.

His head still hurt.

'Sorry,' George said. 'But I think that white chew you gave me wasn't made properly. I don't feel any different.'

The girl laughed. 'It takes a little time to work, Fred. Have some coffee and see if you feel better in a few minutes.'

'Oh. Er, thanks…'

'Audrey,' she supplied with a small smile.

'Yes, then.' said George awkwardly. 'Thanks, Audrey.'

George could feel her eyes on him as he took a few tentative sips of the coffee. It wasn't bad—a little weak, but overall, not bad.

It was only a matter of minutes before her curiosity got the better of her. George expected her to ask why he'd been drinking, or how he'd ended up passed out on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building. What he wasn't expecting was, 'I hope you don't mind me asking, but what is your jacket made of?'

'Dragonskin,' George said without thinking. He could have kicked himself.

'I see,' said Audrey interestedly, but it was clear that she didn't see at all. He tipped the coffee mug quickly against his lips without looking at her. The hot liquid seared the roof of his mouth and burned his throat going down, and the spluttering cough he couldn't restrain after that was more embarrassing than his watering eyes.

She had shifted to the edge of her seat and was watching him intently. The way her lips opened and closed soundlessly made him think he was on the attack end of a barrage of questions, and he had only as long as it took for her to pick one. Her intense gaze was occasionally broken by the flickering of her eyes to the notepad and pen on the mantle over the fireplace. George felt like some sort of bizarre specimen.

It was making him very uncomfortable. If Fred had been there, he would have thought it was hilarious. Of course, to her he was Fred—not that it mattered.

'What happened to your ear?'

The ear was old news. George shrugged. 'I lost it in the war. It's not much of a battle scar—it was more of a case of…what it's called?'

'_Friendly fire,' Fred would have said._

'Yeah, that,' George agreed. 'Although I doubt Snape could ever be accredited with anything dubbed 'friendly.''

'_Greasy old bastard,' Fred would have said reminiscently, rubbing his palms together. 'Horrible aim.'_

'Perhaps,' George allowed. 'But supposedly he was trying to save my life.'

Audrey's brows furrowed, and she set the mug on the coffee table beside the vase. 'I'm sorry if I seem…overly interested, Fred, but I'm an English grad student and I'm working on a novel, and you reminded me so much of one of my own characters I couldn't not help you.'

'Oh,' said George, blinking fast. 'That's…nice.'

'_More like raving mad,' Fred would have muttered under his breath._

'Yeah,' she seconded with a nod, not grasping George's apprehension and bewilderment. 'It's like you just stepped out of my notebook or something. Tell me, where did you escape from?'

George shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was time to make as dignified an exit as possible. 'I have to go,' he announced abruptly. 'It's been spiffing, Audrey, but I have places to be. Thanks for everything!'

He seized his jacket and dashed out of the living room into the kitchen, which actually didn't lead anywhere, and so had to run back through the living room on the way to the front door and stairs. Right before he closed the apartment door, he called loudly, 'Your English is excellent, by the way!'

'_She's a loony,' Fred would have snickered, 'and you thought she was an angel.'_

'Shut up,' said George as he fled the apartment building and hurried up the street. 'I was barely conscious.'

He couldn't feel his legs at all as he worked his way back towards the Leaky Cauldron, but his headache had subsided somewhat, and for that he was extremely grateful. There weren't many people out in the streets. Only a few people gave him odd looks as he hobbled along, and a menacing glare was enough to threaten people off staring at him.

The sun overhead was creeping towards its zenith. Victoire's birthday party started at two, and George was very aware that if he was less than punctual, Ginny would have his arse for a quaffle, and he would gladly give it if not to suffer Fleur's wrath or his mum's, both of whom would be infinitely worse.

He pushed open the door of the Leaky Cauldron and went in.

It was doing a surprising amount of business for the middle of the day, although most of its customers seemed to be the partiers from the night before who'd no doubt gotten drunk and slept it off in one of the inn's rooms. Zacharias Smith and Ernie Macmillan were both sitting at a little table on the far side of the room eating lunch. Smith was still looking rather…singed.

George smirked and tried to slink through the back without being noticed, but Hannah stepped out of the bar just as he was passing with her hands on her hips.

'Hullo,' George said winningly. 'Happy Victory Day and all! Have you got the time?'

'Quarter till noon,' said Hannah brusquely. 'You stay put, George Weasley, I've got some things to say t—'

Hannah's tirades were a lot like Mrs. Weasley's in one respect: if you let her get going, it was hard to make her stop. George had earned enough of them to know he ought to leave right away.

George kissed her cheek charmingly and pushed by to the door. 'Sorry, Hannah love, but duty calls!'

'_Can't keep the world waiting,' Fred would have added with a wink._

'George!' she yelled angrily as the door swung closed behind her.

He didn't see how she could still be mad about a few little fireworks, and it had been almost fifteen whole hours ago, really, but he resolved to send her something pleasant to make up for it. Rule #32 of the Gred and Forge rulebook was, after all, "keep on good terms with the person who mixes your drinks" right after "never try out imperfect products alone" and "the person who has the last Butterbeer buys the next case."

The brick wall was familiar, solid—he couldn't remember ever having been so glad to see it. George fumbled in the pockets of his denims for his wand. There was a moment of horror in which he thought that he'd left his wand at the barmy English grad's apartment and he'd have to go back for it before he realized it was deep in one of his jacket pockets. He drew it with a sigh of relief and tapped the third brick from the right.

Diagon Alley was empty. All the shops were closed, the streets quiet. George knew better than to think it would stay that way. When the restaurants and the ice-cream parlour opened that evening, Diagon Alley would be full of witches and wizards celebrating Victory Day.

George let himself in the front door of the shop, taking care to lock it behind him, and after peeling off his dirty clothes and tossing them into a corner, headed straight for the shower.

He let the water run hot while he dug through a basket of bottled potions under the sink for something for the hangover. The mirror fogged over quickly, and he was grateful for it. It meant he didn't have to look at the bruises over his eye and on his forehead until after he finished the shower.

Long showers had never been George's thing, but his skin felt positively grimy and his hair was lank and greasy. He scrubbed and shampooed four or five times, stopping once between scrubs to step out of the shower, brush his teeth, and have a tooth-flossing string-mint. Forty-five minutes later, he was cleaner than he'd been in weeks, and his skin was rubbed raw.

There was an instant bruise-remover in the potions basket. He left the cream on the black eye and the bruise on the side of his forehead as he changed into a fresh pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and an old Christmas jumper.

'_That's one of mine,' Fred would have said, as if he didn't know. 'It's got an 'f' on it.'_

''F' is for Forge,' George remarked. 'You can wear mine, Gred.'

'_Ah, but they can tell us apart now, you know,' Fred would have mused, eyeing himself in the mirror by the dresser. 'Maybe I should cut my ear off too. I hear it's all the rage these days.'_

George laughed.

There were a few odd things he had to do before he headed to Shell Cottage—he hand-made a birthday card for Victoire out of an old Daily Prophet, some pixie glitter, and some flashing paint, and transfigured a quill into a little box with holes in the side.

Most of the Pygmy Puffs in the shop downstairs were awake and running about excitedly when he came to their cage, as if pleading with him to choose them. He hadn't exactly gotten permission from Bill to get his daughter something alive for her birthday, and she was only two, so he scooped out a fat, docile turquoise one sleeping in the corner of the cage. When he put it in the box, it sniffed a bit at the air holes and then curled up and went back to sleep.

'_It's perfect,' Fred would have said. 'Now put a bow on the box and let's go.'_

George obliged with a wave of his wand.

It was five minutes till two. Clutching the hand-made birthday card and the beribboned box, he Apparated away.

The front garden of Shell Cottage had not escaped without decoration. A portable patio had been laid out over the grass, framed in with rose bushes and ivy covered arches. The long table had not been set yet, but little glass-covered candles were laid out every few feet. There was also an ice-bucket with a freezing charm on it off to the side with drinks in it slightly off to the side—George would not have noticed it, except that he Apparated right into it.

He leapt out of the bucket at once and started up the path to the front door, which had been propped open with a garden gnome in a body bind. There were streamers everywhere, and music coming from inside the house. Most of the family hadn't arrived yet, from the looks of it. George wandered in idly, and after peering into the kitchen on a frantic Mrs. Weasley and an impassive Fleur who was stirring batter with a three-month old Dominique on her hip, headed for the sitting room.

Charlie and Ginny were on the floor of the sitting room, playing with Victoire. Her blond hair had been plaited into two miniature French braids, and she had been dolled up in a red party dress. Fleur would not have approved of the flame-hiccupping stuffed dragon Charlie was tempting her with.

Victoire looked up when George came in, and with a delighted cry of 'Bang!' leapt up and ran to him. He set down her present and card and swept her up with a laugh. Ginny grinned at him, and Charlie buried his face in his hands; the story of how she had come to know George as 'Bang!' still brought tears of laughter to Charlie's eyes whenever it was mentioned.

'How's my birthday girl?' George asked, chucking her gently under the chin.

She giggled, and said shyly, 'Good.'

'Good!' said George, and he set her back down beside Ginny. 'What are you doing with these two crazy people?'

Victoire tugged the dragon from Charlie's hand and showed it to George. 'See?' As she squeezed it, a flicker of fire shot from the animal's mouth and made the hem of George's jumper smolder slightly.

'Nice,' George said, patting her head. As Victoire scooted back towards Ginny, George muttered to Charlie, 'So we're teaching Bill's kids to play with fire, now?'

Charlie shrugged and replied lightly, 'Fleur wouldn't let us get her on a toy broom, so…'

'Ah,' George said, 'Phlegm won't be able to stop it, eventually.'

'_Yeah,' Fred would have agreed. 'It's fighting fate.'_

'Quidditch is in her blood,' George added sagely.

'Tell that to Fleur,' said Bill from the doorway. George looked up—he hadn't seen Bill come in.

Victoire's face broke out into a wide grin, and she held the dragon out in front of her. 'Daddy! Look!' A spurt of fire lashed out, and the carpet sparked.

Bill put out the carpet with a wave of his wand and a glare at Charlie. 'How nice,' he said to Victoire. 'How about we put it away and go outside, okay? Percy and Gabrielle just arrived in the garden.'

'Gabby?' Victoire demanded happily. Bill nodded. Victoire jumped to her feet and ran out on stout little legs yelling 'Gabby!'

'Charlie,' Bill said over his shoulder as he turned to follow her. 'If you set my house on fire with that thing, I swear I won't save you from Fleur, so help me Merlin.' There was no anger in it, but it was probably the worst threat he could have made.

Ginny winced. 'If I were you, I'd get rid of that thing.'

'I kind of thought it would go with the tiny dragonskin boots I got her,' Charlie admitted. 'They're pretty cool.'

George laughed. 'Well, keep it around a little longer and maybe the Triwizard wonder wife will approve.'

'_It looks like a Horntail,' Fred would have said. I'm sure it will bring back lots of happy memories for Harry.'_

'He is coming to the party, isn't he?' George asked. When Ginny frowned, he added pointedly, 'Harry, I mean.'

'He's going to drop by, yeah,' Ginny said. 'Ron and Hermione should be here soon as well.'

'Should we go down to the garden, then?'

'Yeah.' George picked up the card and the box, and Charlie and Ginny retrieved their presents from the hall table. They walked down to the garden together.

Victoire was sitting in Gabrielle's lap and listening to a story in French, while Percy sat by and pretended he understood. George felt a pang of sympathy for his brother—he and Penelope had broken up for the fifth time earlier that week, according to Ginny's letters anyway, and it looked like it was for real this time.

Charlie and George settled in at the end of the table with drinks before Mr. Weasley could recruit them to carry out food, but Ginny wasn't so lucky. By the time Ron and Hermione showed up, the table was nearly sagging with the weight of dozens of dishes, and Ginny was run ragged.

Ron, George, and Charlie talked Quidditch over plates of roast turkey, pasta salad, corn, peas, potatoes, rolls, and pudding. The Kestrels had a bit of a new line-up, and it had been serving them well so far, but Ginny's team was second in the league, and given their record, they had a better chance of winning nationals. Ron was still clinging to the hope that the Cannons might pull through, as they had miraculously fought their way up to fourth in the league. George thought it had less to do with the Cannons improving and more to do with other teams having trouble finding players—post-war euphoria had led to an unexpected baby boom, and those who hadn't retired to take up family life were either too old to be on top of their game or too young to know all the tricks of the trade. Ron insisted the Cannons were just getting better. Harry, when he did finally show up, refused to take sides except to say he was betting on the Harpies all the way, which earned him a kiss from Ginny. It frustrated George to no end, especially as Fred would have backed him up.

Victoire was restless and excitable, and ran off to play in the bushes with Ginny and Hermione before the meal was over. Fleur had to run and fetch them back when Mrs. Weasley brought out the cake.

Victoire's eyes were as wide as saucers as they all sang Happy Birthday and the cake was set in front of her. It was an enormous chocolate cake with two tiers and an abundance of icing roses, and two fat candles had been stuck in the top and lit. Victoire stood in her booster seat to see them.

'Think of something you want,' Bill told her, 'And blow them out.'

'Dog,' said Victoire decisively, imitating Percy's sanctimonious little nod, and she stood on tiptoe to blow out the candles. There was a great deal of spit involved. They all applauded anyway, and Fleur cut the cake.

Victoire had finished her piece before Fleur had served Mr. Weasley and Gabrielle. She became bored quickly, so Ginny plied her with presents while everyone else had cake.

The picture-book from Ron and Hermione was pretty, but not nearly interesting enough to capture Victoire's attention. Charlie's present, however, was an instant hit.

Victoire clapped her hands and giggled as Ginny lifted the miniature dragonskin boots out of the box, and Fleur cried, 'Oh! Zey are darling!'

'They are that,' Mrs. Weasley agreed. 'Help her get them on, Gin.'

Victoire had already slumped out of her seat and tugged off her shoes. Ginny helped her slide the boots on over her stockings. It was a bizarre combination with the party dress, but Victoire was nothing short of delighted. She shrieked happily and ran around the table stomping her feet so they all would notice her boots.

Charlie was back in Fleur's good graces, of course. He winked at George as if to say '_what did I tell you?'_ and took a large bite of his cake.

Bill opened Charlie's card and snorted. 'You do know that we're keeping these cards to show her when she's older, right?'

Charlie choked.

Ginny tempted Victoire back to the table with George's present. She couldn't untie the bow or get the lid all the way off without help, but when she looked down into the box, her eyes went wide and she said quietly, 'Ooooh.'

'I had one of those,' Ginny remarked, also looking down into the box.

'Wot eez it?' Fleur asked warily.

Victoire scooped out the turquoise Pygmy Puff and held it up in front of her so she could kiss the top of its furry head, and then cradle it against her dress. 'It's from Uncle George,' Ginny told her, pointing down the table at George. 'You know…Bang.'

'Bang!' Victoire echoed.

Charlie choked again.

Bill was reading George's card with a little frown on his face. 'George,' he said suddenly. 'Can I talk to you for a minute?'

'Yeah, sure.'

George got up and followed Bill away from the patio. They were almost to the house when Bill stopped and turned around.

'Are you all right?'

George was almost annoyed. He wasn't staring off into space. He wasn't drinking himself into incoherency. He wasn't passed out drunk on a stranger's couch. Of all the times he had been asked that question in the last twenty four hours, he expected it least here…now.

'Of course,' George said defensively.

Bill sighed. 'The thing is…I don't think you are.'

'I don't understand.'

'George, we're trying to help you here. It's been three years since he died, and this can't go on.'

'I'm fine,' George protested. 'I've moved on.'

'Yeah, maybe, but you haven't stopped trying to bring him with you.' Bill shifted uneasily and bit his lip. 'Look, were you even paying attention when you signed Victoire's card?'

He held it out with trembling hands. The inscription on the inside read simply '_Happy Birthday, Victoire! From your Uncles Fred and George.'_

George looked away. He felt very cold and empty suddenly, and the silence in his head was almost too much to bear.

'He's dead, George,' Bill whispered. 'Fred is dead, and you're confusing yourself, and if you keep this up, you're going to confuse my daughter.' He pulled out his wand and struck Fred's name from the card. 'I'm sorry, but I don't know how to help you anymore.'

Bill turned and walked away.

George sat down on the grass and wrapped his arms around his knees. He couldn't bring himself to walk back down to the patio yet to finish his cake and butterbeer and pretend like what Bill said hadn't shaken him.

It was dusk, and he was alone on yet another miserable Victory Day.

_The red eyes narrowed into slits below the dark hood, and the white lips curled into a sneer. 'You can stop this, you know,' said the high, cold voice. 'It doesn't have to be this way, George Weasley.'_

_Fred strained against the ropes. Blood was streaming from the gash on his temple, and his lip was split, but his eyes were wide, pleading him—no, ordering him not to give in, not to be weak…_

'_Tell me where he is, and you will both be free.'_

'_Let him go,' George said. His voice cracked. He hated himself for it. _

_The Dark Lord laughed. 'What about you, blood traitor?' He touched George's cheek with a long, thin finger and then brought his wand slashing down. The skin opened where the finger had touched, and blood poured from George's face._

_George trembled, but said nothing. _

'_Crucio!'_

_He tensed, waiting for the pain, but the scream that rent the air was not his own. Fred was writhing on the ground, his eyes rolling and the ropes cutting into his skin. George closed his eyes and covered his ears with his hands. He didn't know when he started screaming too, but he didn't stop until long after Fred had fallen back against the stones, panting._

'_I am growing impatient,' the Dark Lord hissed. 'Where is Harry Potter?'_

'_Let my brother go,' George replied, opening his eyes at last, 'And we will talk.'_

'_Crucio!'_

_This time the curse was for him. His knees buckled as his bones froze and burned, burned and froze and his flesh was seared, and his head would explode if it didn't stop—_

_It was lifted suddenly._

_George pushed onto his hands and knees, struggling to catch his breath, when he felt long, cold fingers curl into the back of his hair and pull his head up. Those red eyes terrified him, but also filled him with determination._

'_I am not afraid of you,' he lied._

_The Dark Lord jerked his head back so that he was forced to look where Fred lay, rigid and nervous. 'Are you afraid for him?'_

'_Let him go,' George said again._

_The hand on the back of his head forced him to watch as the next cruciatus curse hit his brother, and the other writhed and screamed and pleaded, and it hurt more than when it had been him._

'_I don't know where Harry is!' he gasped, nausea rising in his throat. 'Please stop, just stop!'_

_The Dark Lord's voice had a new tone, a dangerous one that chilled George's very being. 'Would you die for him, George Weasley? Would you die if it would save him?'_

'_Yes,' George rasped._

_He dragged George to his feet and aimed the wand at his heart. 'You would?'_

'_No!' Fred shouted._

'_Yes,' George said._

_The Dark Lord laughed and turned on his heel. A flick of his wand, a murmured, 'Avada Kedavra!' and a flash of light, and Fred fell limply against the floor, his face slack and eyes wide and staring, lips parted slightly as if the words had died on his lips, and George was screaming, screaming and shouting and crying and pleading and nothing he did could bring his twin back…_

George swung his feet over the edge of the bed and buried his head in his hands, letting his fingers grip his own hair so tightly several hairs broke away in his hands. He was shaking uncontrollably. When his breath slowed, he stumbled to the bathroom and opened the vault behind the mirror.

The deep shelves there were lined with bottles and bottles of Dreamless Sleep Potions. He had to shuffle seven or eight aside before he found one that was half-empty. Two capfuls would ensure he did not dream again that night.

After he'd closed the mirror, he turned off the lights and walked back into the bedroom, pulling some blankets from his bed. It was one in the morning, according to the clock on the wall.

With one quick, sidelong glance at the empty twin on the other side of the room, he left to curl up on the couch.

A/N: Most of George's dreams (yes, there will be more) are precisely that: dreams. Or more like nightmares. They're pretty frequent, and not at all prophetic or a contortion of something that actually happened. Hope no one was confused!


End file.
